


Protection, Reliance

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, auditory hallucinations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:26:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7199801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a quiet night on the Rue de Rivoli when Erik unexpectedly knocks on the door in need of a friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protection, Reliance

He is reading _Madame Bovary_ in the attempt to improve his French when the knock comes to the door. Darius has retired for the night, and Iman is terribly reluctant to get the door, but it is late and there is only one caller that it is likely to be. Sighing, he sets down the book and stretches out of the chair, his back cracking. Thankfully the fire is crinkling away in the grate, not a blaze but there are definite flames. He ought to rattle and revive it, but he must get the door.

The knock comes again, more a tap than a knock, and he groans. It really is far too late for callers, but it is unusual enough for Erik to call on him. Usually it is the other way around, and he has to the wait on the banks of the underground lake for the “phantom” to show himself, so wary is Erik of showing where he actually lives.

 The stiffness stretched out of his bones – or at least, fairly well so – Iman shuffles to the door. He will see what his sometime-friend has to say for himself, and then send him on his merry way. Nodding in resolution, he twists the knob and opens the door.

Hardly has Iman time to register that he was correct in surmising that Erik is his late night caller than the afore-mentioned Erik brushes past him and stumbles to the divan. He lies down and curls up beneath his cloak, face hidden from view. Sighing, Iman closes the door and returns to his armchair and his book.

Or at least, that’s what he lets himself think. He does return to the armchair, yes, but he simply holds the book in his hand, and surveys his _unexpected_ guest. Erik makes no sign of being aware that he is under surveillance, curled up as he is, not a hand or a corner of mask visible. It is not unusual for a visit from him to be at such a late hour, but it is unusual for him not to speak or make a list of demands or go off on a rant. For him to simply curl up like a cat and pretend to be unaware of his surroundings is…well, it’s _odd_ to say the least, and Iman cannot deny that it troubles him.

“May I get you anything?” he asks at last, feigning unconcern in his voice though he makes no move to return to his reading.

The reply is muffled by Erik’s face being tucked into his cloak, but Iman is almost certain that he murmurs, “Some silence would be nice.” Short of stopping the clock and quenching the fire there is no way that the apartment could be _more_ silent. He groans and shudders and now Iman does put the book down because there is very certainly something wrong.

“What is it, Erik?” he asks, slipping off the armchair and kneeling by the divan. He hesitates a moment, before laying a hand gently on Erik’s shoulder. At another time Erik might lash out at being touched, but now he merely whimpers, low in his throat, and Iman’s heart aches to see him suffer so.

“They won’t stop, Daroga,” he whispers. “Make them stop.”

Voices, again. How they plagued him in Persia, how Iman had hoped that with time they might have gone away and now…

“I’ll make you some tea.” He squeezes Erik’s shoulder and stands. Erik’s hand snakes out and tightens around his trousers, a silent plea, but Iman gently pries it free and squeezing it sets it down. “It will only take a minute, Erik. I will be right back.” He walks into the kitchen and sets the water boiling, digging out the honey and chamomile. Such a brew often helped him in Persia, soothing him and allowing him to sleep. It stands to reason that it will help, now, too.

It is the lack of sleep that brings these voices on. Pushing himself too hard, staying awake for days at a time. Usually, if he gets some rest, they leave him be again, until the next time. It is a vicious cycle, always coming back around to haunt him. The things he’s done at such times…they do not bear thinking about.

He returns to Erik and the divan as fast as he can, balancing the cup of tea as he gently shakes Erik and helps him to sit up. Erik protests, briefly, when Iman makes to take off his mask so that he can drink the tea, then Iman reminds him that it is nothing he has not seen before, and Erik acquiesces reluctantly. His face has changed little through the years, still grotesquely, hollowly skull-like, but it matters not now. It may be decades since Iman has seen it, but one does not forget so easily and he is ready.

They are silent as Erik sips the tea, Iman returning to his armchair though he makes no effort to read, instead watches the flickering winces across that face, the trembling of those bony hands. Whatever else Erik is - murderer, extortionist, torture-master, trapdoor-lover – he does not deserve to suffer so continually, his very mind rebelling against him. If Iman could take it all away he would, nightmares and dreamt-up half-remembered voices both.

“May Erik stay here tonight, Daroga?” The words are soft, and they shake Iman from his thoughts to see Erik, the cup drained and set down, and he lying along the divan, still unmasked and still wrapped in his cloak.

Well, he could hardly send him on his way now. It would be cruel to leave him alone when he is suffering like this. “Of course,” he murmurs, and taking his book re-locates to the edge of the divan. He is not certain what it is that motivates him to move closer, just that it feels necessary, the right thing to do. He reaches out, and carefully takes Erik’s cold hand, twining their fingers. Erik whimpers, a choked off noise in his throat that tears right at Iman’s heart. “Would you like me to read to you?” It might help if there is something for him to focus on other than the voices in his head, and Erik nods half-hesitantly.

“Please.”

“All right.” Balancing the book on his knee, Iman goes back to the first page, and commences to read. It is not long until he hears Erik sigh, sees that those golden eyes have flickered closed, and soon his breathing slows, too, into the soft breaths of sleep.

Iman yawns and sets the book down, fetching two blankets from the cupboard. One he lays over Erik, so that he may not get cold in sleep. The other he wraps around his own shoulders, and settles onto the floor, back pressed to the divan. His bones will protest in the morning, but they matter not, and he cannot leave Erik, not like this.


End file.
